


Hopeless Romantics

by AvaRosier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Modern Westeros, also there's that Jon/Meera scene that serves as a CV for his pussy-eating skillz, and Jon/Myranda, feat! romance novelist sansa, jon snow loves eating pussy carve that on his gravestone, poor sansa needs multiple orgasms otherwise it really is a national tragedy, references to Jon/Arianne, references to sansa/harry and sansa/joff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: Sansa is writing her first romance novel, her agent wants explicit sex scenes to make it more marketable, Sansa doesn’t quite have the requisite experience to draw upon. A tragedy? Sure.Enter Jon Snow.(alternative title: ‘For A Good Time, Call Jon Snow’)(alternative alternative title: 'To Jon Snow Thanks For Everything, Sansa Stark’)(i’ve-given-up-on-respectability-title: 'Down Where It’s Wetter’)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Modern Oldtown is, in my head, a combination of New Orleans and Oxbridge. The opening paragraph of Jon's first pov is paraphrased from Dakota Gray's _Perv_. The reference to 980s Westeros = 1980s Earth. This was written for the jonxsansafanfiction 15 Days of Valentines challenge.

“ _Sleep well, my lady,” Marq had told her, his blond hair gleaming in the dim glow of the single torchlight in the hallway. The solemnity with which he delivered his promise to stand sentinel outside her bedchambers all night while she slept had made a queer sort of warmth settle inside her, an awareness that persisted even as she laid there under her furs. Having gone so long without a sense of safety, the sheer relief she felt only served to make acute how deeply exhausted she was._

_Alysanne was torn by a sense of longing and loss, as if she had missed her chance at something. He had battled to restore her home to her- her birthright- and now she was constrained by the demands as well as the limitations of her station as Lady of Snowden castle. It only made her wonder about those months alone with Marq on the road, sleeping in haylofts and inns and tents; all the times she had felt she could simply walk over to him and cross that invisible boundary: to kiss him and beg him to put his sword-roughened hands on her. But she hadn’t because it would not have been proper and how strange that now, of all times, she should regret this._

_Was it truly so impossible now?_

_She was the heir now that her brothers were dead, Snowden was hers by right. Who were her bannermen to protest if she took as consort the very knight that had shed blood to save them all? Even as Alysanne thought it, doubt reared its ugly head. Would Marq even want to marry her? She was no longer the silly girl he met in the capitol so long ago, she was a woman grown and she had learned to tell when a man looked upon her with desire in his eyes. But lust and marriage were not the same thing._

_Alysanne sat up in the bed, the furs falling around her waist as she contemplated her options. Would it be so terrible to walk across her room, open the door, and invite Marq inside? To ask him to do all the things she’d thought up in her most wanton fantasies? Could she be satisfied if this was all he could give her?_

_If he rejected her- out of his sense of honor, most likely- she didn’t think she would have the courage to stick her head out of her chambers for days. But, she reminded herself, you are a Winter, you can be brave._

_She didn’t allow herself to think a single thing as she shoved the furs aside and stalked over to the door, flinging it open and nearly snuffing out the flame of the torch. Marq, evidently in the middle of polishing his sword, startled and clambered to his feet. He looked so adorably flustered, it nearly melted her resolve. Nearly, not entirely._

“ _Ser Marq,” she declared, frowning before she remembered to soften her face. A serene smile might soften **his** resolve. Especially his pesky honor. She hadn’t survived the capitol by being a clueless twit, after all._

“ _Al- Lady Alysanne. Is there some kind of trouble?” He cleared his throat._

“ _Not exactly. I have simply come to a decision.” As a child, she had frequently been described as altogether too serious, and this echo must have provided Marq with some entertainment, for his dark eyes crinkled at the corners._

“ _Have you now? At such a late hour, too.”_

_Undeterred, Alsyanne continued. “Aye. I have decided I want you to come inside. To stay, if you wished.” There. The words were out, nothing for her to do but stand there in her night shift and await his reaction._

_And what a reaction it was! Marq’s eyes darkened, a thing she scarcely thought possible, and his lips, so soft looking, drifted open with shock. He also seemed to be gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. That wouldn’t do. Stepping closer, Alysanne reached out and touched his hand, gently prying it off of his sword._

_She tilted her head up to his, resisting the urge to run the fingers of her other hand through that riot of dark brown curls-_

* * *

 

“Oh no,” Sansa moaned softly to herself, resisting the urge to bang her forehead against the table.  She peered over the rim of her laptop and once again beheld the object of her real-life ogling as he sat at a table on the other side of the cafe, frowning while he flipped to the next page of his book. It really wasn’t fair that a man who dressed like such a slob half the time she saw him could still be _so hot_. His dark brown curly hair was pulled back in a trendy manbun and what had to be the sexiest pair of tortoiseshell glasses she’d ever seen on a man were perched on his nose.

He was probably one of those snobby intellectuals that were a stag a dozen here in Oldtown but you try telling that to her vagina.

And now he was weaseling his way into her novel, which at the moment was an unforgivable offense. Ser Marq was supposed to have a gleaming mane of blond hair, not curly brown. Deep blue eyes, not warm brown. Why had she thought she could do this in her favorite cafe around the corner? She hadn’t had a problem writing the novel itself here, but when it came to satisfying her agent’s demands for revisions and additions, the place seemed to offer more obstacles than help.  She held her finger over the backspace as if erasing the evidence would also make her ladyboner go away.

Frankly, if she was going to be this distracted, then maybe coffee wasn’t the best muse…wine was.  “Home it is,” she murmured to herself, closing her laptop and sliding it into her bag. She carefully avoided looking at Not-Marq as she made her way around the line by the register and stepped out of Cafe Eden.

As she hurried on towards her building, Sansa contemplated the labor of love that was _The Sword & The Dove, _borne out of her breakup with Harry Hardyng over a year ago and the fervent desire to  make a project out of herself. 'Rediscovering Myself’ was the rather unimaginative header, but it’d been the best she’d come up with after two angry glasses of wine while out with Jeyne and Mya.

Step one had been to strip the dark brown dye from her hair- the shade Harry had thought made her elegant enough to fit in with his circle of MBA friends- and return to the bright red she’d been born with. _That_ had been an expensive and lengthy lesson in why it was not good to change yourself for a man.

She’d moved out of Mya’s place (or rather the futon in her second bedroom) and into a place of her own. Sansa may have been disappointed in how little the men she’d loved had lived up to her idealizations, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t let her inner control freak out and decorate her new flat into something that was so quintessentially _her_.

Then she’d decided to write a romance novel. It’d made sense at the time: she’d read so many growing up and on top of that she did have that unused second BA in Medieval Westerosi History gathering dust. Cue months of research and bursts of copious writing followed by days staring at a blinking cursor. She spent her 9-to-5 days working for a senator at the Capitol building here in Oldtown, this was what she did for pleasure.

Now her novel was, for all intents and purposes, finished. And she’d found an agent and publisher who was excited to get her work out there. The only problem was…

Sex.

Or rather, the lack thereof. Sansa had roughly four hundred pages of angst, politics, and courtly love between Lady Alysanne Winter and Ser Marq Wayland and the love scenes tended to be more restrained and cerebral in their description. But according to Olenna, in order to make her novel marketable (and profitable), _The Sword & The Dove_ needed something more explicit.

[“ _I’m not saying you need to have him go at her arse with a spatula, my dear,_ ” Olenna had so blithely said over the phone. “ _But at least have him feast on her cunt like it’s his breakfast, lunch, and dinner and he’s been lost in the Red Mountains of Dorne for months. Have you seen the Oberyn Martell sex tape- the one that was leaked last year?_ ” Sansa had not, because she didn’t want her laptop to be riddled with viruses.]

And that was what was currently tripping her up. Not just because she didn’t have much practice writing explicit smut but because she had a tendency to psych herself out every time she tried…mostly because she thought it would be abundantly obvious she had no idea what she was writing about. Which reminded her how pitiful her sexual experience had been so far and only served to make her feel inadequate.

Cue her sitting at her dining room table, wine glass in hand, debating the merits of 'cunt’ versus 'peach’.

 

* * *

 

_Alysanne could scarcely breathe, and not just because her stays suddenly felt restricting. “Ser…Ser! What do you think you’re doing?” Her words came out in a scandalized whisper._

_Not that they stopped Marq, who remained utterly focused on his mission to gather up Alysanne’s voluminous skirts, piling them up over her waist and leaving her completely bare to his heated gaze. “My lady,” he groaned and perhaps Alysanne was imagining the reverent tone in his voice. “Your…”_

“ _My what?”_

“ _Your peach is beautiful,” he said, sounding rather choked up. Alysanne frowned and craned her head to the side._

“ _My peach? You imagine things, Ser, there is no fruit in my bedchambers.”_

“ _Your flower?”_

“ _They’re outside, in the gardens.”_

“ _Well I can’t well refer to your va-jay-jay as 'cunt’ because that sounds awfully harsh.”_

_Alysanne gasped and attempted to cover herself with her skirts, raising her head off the bed to stare at the knight who had won her heart. “I know not of what you speak nor why you wish to stare there.”_

_Marq shot her a crooked grin that did queer things to her insides. “I thought I would kiss it.”_

_She had never heard something so ridiculous in her life. “Kiss it how?”_

_His face fell, stupefied. “Actually, I hadn’t…maybe I’d stab at your nub with my tongue? If it feels like sandpaper, you’d want me to stop, wouldn’t you?”_

_Alysanne threw herself back down on the bed, no longer caring how indecently exposed she was. “Fuck, shit, damn, crappity crap!”_

 

* * *

 

“Fuck, shit, damn, crappity crap!” Sansa let out an inarticulate scream of frustration before banging her forehead against the table next to her laptop. She’d had papers there earlier, but they’d been cleared away specifically so she could bang her forehead against the table. “No problem, Ms Redwyne,” she parroted herself from one week before, “I can add a few steamy sex scenes to my novel. Easy as pie!” She laughed mockingly.

Sure, she had a very healthy erotic imagination (probably, she thinks) but by this point the bout of self confidence that had propelled her through four hundred plus pages of _The Sword & The Dove_ had abandoned her and she was feeling much like a little girl playing dress-up.

Sansa took another gulp of her wine and contemplated calling Olenna to try and tell her she just couldn’t do it. But she suspected that nobody told Olenna Redwyne, one of the top romance novel agents in Westeros, 'no’ and escaped being blacklisted. It had been a miracle and half that the older woman had even read over Sansa’s manuscript, let alone call it 'Smashing! Immensely marketable!’ Sansa really hadn’t expected that.

A knock sounded at the door.

Eager for a distraction from her looming failure at life, Sansa unfolded from her seat and headed through her living room. No sooner than she had swung the door open than she recognized the woman on the other side.

“Honey bunches!” Myranda Royce trilled by way of greeting, knocking Sansa to the side as she strode inside without waiting for an invitation. Sansa took note of her neighbor and friend’s casual attire: her ample curves were clad in rolled grey sweats, a dark navy blue Trident College tee that clearly had come from one of her 'boyfriends’, her hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy bun with a thick headband to tame flyaway strands, and her face was bare of makeup.

“Day off?”

Myranda shrugged. “I scheduled a dentist appointment the same day as my gyno, there’s just no way I can fake sexy after that.”

The Wisteria Arms building was set in what qualified as the 'seedy’ district of Oldtown, where the grunge hipsters hung out and alternative lifestyles abounded. So Sansa’s building was a co-op and the residents had a say in who could move in next. Which was why her neighbors included Myranda, whose income came mostly from cam work; Melisandre and Selyse, the Odd Couple of Hippie Sex Therapists; Satin, who worked at the sole male stripper club in the city; and green-haired Wylla, who had a hand in virtually every protest movement within fifty miles.

Myranda noticed the nearly empty glass of wine. “It’s a bit early in the day for you to be hitting the bottle,” she pointed out with an arch of one eyebrow.

Sansa sighed and wandered into her kitchen to retrieve another glass, into which she poured a measure of wine. After topping her own glass off, she carried both into the living room and handed one to Myranda. “I thought I could use wine as my muse while failing to write a sex scene.”

Myranda eyed her over the rim of her glass. “Aren’t they always going on about writing what you know? Just draw from your own experiences.”

When Sansa failed to answer her, Myranda’s eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’ve had good sex, at least.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t think Olenna wants two minutes of Marq stabbing Alysanne with his tongue before he whines 'why haven’t you come yet, what’s wrong with you?'” She managed a decent impression of Joffrey, one of her exes. Myranda made a strangled sound before she knocked back all her wine and slammed the glass down on the coffee table.

“Sansa!” She wheedled, still horrified. “This is a national tragedy!”

“It is not.” Sansa was perfectly aware that on some level, she was lying to herself. Denial was not a river in Sarnor, after all.

“Nuh-huh. Forget the book. I’m going to help a girlfriend out and get you fucked so good you forget about those useless bags of fermented milk.” She rifled through the stack of opened mail on Sansa’s coffee table. Grabbing one of the scattered pens, she scribbled something on an empty envelope, glancing at her phone for reference.

“No, that’s not necessary. Myranda, _no_.”

Myranda was not deterred; she held up one perfectly manicured finger. “Hey, you’re going to get plenty of first-hand experience to use.” She handed Sansa the scrap of paper, on which was written: ’ _Jon Snow, 78 15 4213_ ’

“What’s this?”

“ _That_ is Jon Snow’s number. Trust me, that man has a golden tongue. He’ll have you coming at least twice in a single night and seeing all seven heavens.”

 

* * *

 

 

Unlike what the porn industry would have you think, good pussy eating wasn’t about attaching your mouth to a clit and grinding it into submission with your tongue.  It was about paying attention to each person’s reactions. It was about worship, about _control_ , and if you had your head screwed on right, you would enjoy it. And Jon Snow fucking loved eating pussy.

Like right now.

Meera was currently clutching at the pillows behind her head, accentuating her well-developed triceps all the more, her chin straining up towards the ceiling. She had terrific breath control, which was why Jon didn’t take it as a sign of ineptitude that the most sounds she ever made were deep groans. He’d learned in the few times they’ve hooked up that she preferred her legs practically straight on the bed, two fingers in her cunt, and a slow, insistent pressure from his tongue going up and down over the hood of her clit. She rarely lasted three and a half minutes before she started shaking.

 _Ah! There she goes_. Meera’s thighs tensed around his head and he tamped down on his own excitement before he sped up and ruined her buildup. She moaned lowly, the sound coming from the base of her throat and- _fuck_! Jon lightly squeezed his erection through his jeans as her cunt twitched against his mouth. Then her abs and thighs were shaking from the force of her orgasm.

Twenty minutes later, Jon was tugging his jeans back on while Meera rolled her tank top and forest green sweater down over her breasts. His body felt loose and satiated, like he’d just had a decent workout.

“You staying in town over term break?” she asked him, sparing him a glance from under furrowed brows as she reached for her ankle boots. Jon shrugged.

“Probably. I’ve got work to do- gotta get those research papers published so the university can award me tenure.”

“Sucks to be you. But that’s what you get for choosing academia.”

“Not like you, huh?” He drawled. Meera shook her head, a smug smile on her lips.

“Not like me, who gets to escape to the great outdoors five days a week.”

They weren’t anything but friends who occasionally fucked, which was the way they both wanted it. He saw her out of his flat, frowning at the overcast skies and the telltale damp sidewalk. February in Oldtown felt more like early spring- and it might as well be, this far south. Rainy, chilly, and gray.

Jon puttered around his living room, patting Ghost’s head as he went. He might be okay about a casual arrangement with Meera, but he hadn’t been when it was his last girlfriend. Arianne Martell was several years older than him, imaginative, and utterly driven to make it to CEO of one of her father’s companies here in Oldtown. He’d even been considering a move to Sunspear when a new opportunity opened up for her back home, but Arianne had shut that down pretty quick. The breakup had put a few dents in his ego, but here he was, rifling through his fridge for some OJ as a pussy-chaser.

His phone rang.

The number wasn’t in his contacts, but he also wasn’t in the mood to even _look_ at his students’ papers so he answered it. “Hey.”

There was a pause on the line. “Hi, is this Jon Snow?” A feminine voice asked haltingly.

“Yep, you’ve got him. Who is this?” He retrieved a clean glass out of the cabinet and unscrewed the cap on the juice carton.

“Sansa Stark. You don’t know me. Actually it was my friend Myranda who gave me your number- Myranda Royce?”

Ah, yes. Now, _she_ had been a noisy one: fond of high-pitched wails and he usually had to pin her generous thighs wide apart to the bed while she flailed about.  Didn’t hide herself at all, that girl. Jon didn’t mind but it did present a bit of a challenge when he was trying to keep his lips attached to her clit.

“I know her alright. How can I help you?” Another pause. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the whispered ’ _oh gods_ ’ before the woman began speaking again. “Myranda recommended that I call you for…well… _for sex_.” Sansa actually whispered the last two words, but they thundered in his head all the same.

Jon froze mid-pour. “Wow,” was all he could think to say. “I wasn’t aware she was pimping me out now.” He meant it mostly as a joke but Sansa obviously took it as a rebuke.

“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have called! And I’ve gone and insulted you by implying you were a prostitute. Not that I’d judge you if you were-” she rushed to add.

“You didn’t-” he tried to say.

“-believe me, and now I’m just making a complete fool of myself.” She finally took one great, big breath. “Bye.” And just like that, Sansa hung up before he could get another word in, leaving Jon to stare at his phone, mystified.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of his reputation. It was a crying shame that his gender tended to be neglectful when it came to cunnilingus. So if he tended to get hookups and the occasional girlfriend through word of mouth (heh), he wasn’t exactly going to complain. Although…

In his darker moments, usually after drinking whiskey, he wondered what it was about him that was so hard to love.  Which was fucking laughable because he was the worst cynic when it came to romance and marriage. How could he not be? He was the son of Lyanna Snow and Rhaegar Targaryen: he’d grown up hearing all about how his mother, as a young woman of barely eighteen, was seduced by a married man well into his thirties. He’d used her up and broken her heart and some of that trickled down into his mind as a kid.

Brief passion was safe, it was the best way of keeping it real. Except…he’d have to be truly obtuse to not be able to admit the deprivation took its own toll on him. He’d loved two women in his life so far: Val and Arianne. But the terms he’d set, that he’d found in agreement with them, had bit him in his own ass.

Jon’s fingers hovered over the ‘call’ button. This Sansa Stark was probably just in the market for a good fuck or two. He wouldn’t have accepted just any proposition- the woman had sounded embarrassed that she was even calling him for this, which told him that she either didn’t have much experience or it hadn’t amounted to much. And if someone like her was friends with _Myranda_ … Myranda who had blithely informed him that she expected to get her expertly manicured claws into the sugar baby scene soon, which was why she was dropping him as a boytoy posthaste (he _had_ said he liked a woman who was direct), then Myranda must really like this woman. Jon could trust that much.

He hit the 'call’ button.

The line rang once, twice, and he proceeded to wait through the tenth ring like the masochist he obviously was before Sansa picked it up. “Yes?” Her voice rose in pitch an entire octave by the end of the syllable.

“Just so you know, I wasn’t reprimanding you. Let’s…how abou- why don’t we just meet face-to-face and talk, no obligations. I’m open to an arrangement with you, but maybe we could discuss what you’re looking for and if you still want to go through with it, we can. If not, no biggie.” He left his offer on the proverbial table and awaited her reply.

“Okay.” The exhalation of breath was either one of relief or bravery. “I could do that. That’s not so bad. Um, how about Cafe Eden? Over on-”

“Blackwood Lane, yeah I know it. Great scones. Day and time?”

Sansa chuckled. “Yeah, I’m more of a fan of their tarts, myself. But how about tomorrow at three o'clock? I’ll be wanting a caffeine fix about then.”

“Never let me be known as a man who got between someone and their coffee.”

“It’s a d- um, I’ll see you then. Thanks, Jon,” she cleared her throat and Jon didn’t want to put her through an extended awkward goodbye.

“No problem. I’m looking forward to it. Just text me what you’re wearing tomorrow so I know who to look for.”

“I’ll do that. Bye.”

“Bye,” he parroted, right before seeing that the call had ended on her side. Well. Looks like he had a date of sorts tomorrow afternoon. And at one of his favorite cafes, no less. Jon spared a thought to wonder if the gorgeous redhead he frequently saw there, working away at her laptop, would see him with Sansa. Sometimes he could have sworn she was staring at him, and sometimes he thought about trying to introduce himself but somehow he always psyched himself out. Oh well, the was nothing for it, really. If she saw, she saw.

He wasn’t going to waste his time on pipe dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

The scent of peonies were heavy in the air as she rounded the corner onto Blackwood Lane.  As much as she would have loved to stop at the small flower market, it was two minutes until three and she was running late because she had changed her outfit no less than five times before she came to her senses, yanked on her rain boots, and forced herself out the door. Miraculously she was not stopped by Melisandre on the way down- the older woman had heard through the building grapevine about Sansa’s impending _‘sensual fulfillment’_ , as Melisandre was wont to call it, and was trying to corner Sansa to give her unwanted advice.

(She still had nightmares about the one time that involved the ping-pong paddle and the zucchini.)

Unable to calm her nerves down long enough to type with any accuracy, even with autocorrect, Sansa chose to snap a semi-blurry selfie of her outfit and send it to Jon. A mauve knit dress was distinctive enough there was no way he could get her confused with anyone else in the cafe.

 _This is not a date. This is not a date_.

She repeated that phrase to herself like a mantra, hoping it would make her less likely to pass out from anxiety.  At the ripe old age of twenty-five, Sansa Stark was perfectly aware that she had a problem with unrealistic expectations. Her love life to date had been characterized by her relationships being more about the idealistic, pretty pictures she painted in her head rather than the reality. She has been disappointed plenty of times, had that bubble of perfection popped enough to make her more than once bitten, twice wary.

Shitty analogy, but yeah.

Cafe Eden loomed before her and Sansa nearly collided with a weedy freshman who was on his way out. He glared at her, but she gave him nothing except a rushed “sorry!” and wiped her boots on the mat. As she studied the patrons scattered throughout, she tried to decide what to do. Should she get herself a drink first? Or sit down and wait for Jon to recognize her and approach her? When in doubt…

“Coffee. Coffee first,” Sansa muttered to herself, getting in line. Maybe she’d feel better if she got herself a treat, too. Unless she was too nervous to use a fork correctly and sent bits of her tart flying off the plate. She sighed, there were no good choices.

While she was waiting for her latte, she scanned the cafe again. Almost as if magnetized, her eyes drifted over to the teal-painted wall, to the small table next to a potted palm plant. It was her Not-Marq. Today he had on a burgundy sweater over a dark gray button-down, sleeves rolled up over his forearms. Her eyes widened. How dare he? Of all days, he had to look like the embodiment of everyone’s hot professor fantasy when she was meeting another man to talk about casual sex. The second his attention began to move around the room, Sansa turned away before he could catch her staring.

“LATTE FOR SANSA!” The barista’s voice seemed to echo through the cafe and Sansa winced. If this Jon Snow had arrived, there was no way he had missed her name being announced for half the block to hear. She took one last look at her phone and, seeing no message, tossed it in her purse and took her cup.

No sooner had she walked around the counter than she realized Hot Professor Fantasy had stood up and was now in front of her, brows furrowed expectantly. Resisting the urge to see if someone was standing right behind her, Sansa croaked out, “Can I help you?”

He motioned rather awkwardly to himself. “It’s me- Jon?”

“Oh.”

She could have kicked herself when she saw Jon’s expression shutter and a muscle in his jaw tick. “I didn’t mean that as a bad 'oh’. I’m just…surprised because I see you in here all the time and apparently Oldtown _is_ that small a world.”  Her babbling worked- he relaxed and swept a hand through his hair, mussing the curls.

“Yeah, talk about life’s ironies. Shall we sit?” A sardonic smile played on his lips.

Siting sounded really good right about now, preferably before she passed out at the prospect of asking _this_ man to eat her out until she was seeing stars.

 

* * *

 

Needless to say, Jon felt like a prize idiot.

He had noticed her the moment she came rushing into the cafe, all breathless and pink-cheeked. He had been too distracted by how lovely she looked and it wasn’t until she was waiting for her order that he took note of her outfit, which had him scrambling for his phone to re-check the out-of-focus selfie Sansa had sent him.

The moment realization had dawned on him that the redhead with legs for days and the shy woman he was supposed to be meeting were one and the same, Jon had felt as though all the planets had just lined up for him. You see, he had a tendency to sometimes zero in on a woman’s hips, or on the way she walked. Some had that particular roll to their hips that told him they knew their pussy could bring a man to his knees. Some had the determined stride of a woman who knew exactly where she was going and what she wanted when she got there. LegsforDa- _Sansa_  sometimes fidgeted when she first arrived in the cafe, but over time as the outside world melted away and she settled into a place she clearly felt comfortable, she would begin to move with a dancer’s fluidity.

She lacked that confidence right now, but perhaps being in a familiar place would help. Sansa shot him a tentative smile as she settled into the chair across from him, toying with her coffee cup. “So…what do you do in Oldtown?” She asked as an icebreaker.

“I teach military history at Eastwatch College.”

He was confused by the victorious little wiggle Sansa did in her seat at that. “Professor was actually one of my guesses.”

Jon snorted, “That obvious, am I?”

“Only a little,” she demurred, obviously humoring him.

“Well then, it’s only fair I get to make a guess based on the times I see you in here.” He let the challenge fall between them like a gauntlet, prompting an eyebrow raise on Sansa’s part.

“Go ahead, do your worst.”

“You keep too regular hours to be a grad student, so I’m going to go with a professional job in the city center during the workdays and a writer when you’re off.” He was observant, not creepy. Totally.

Sansa made an impressed moue with her mouth, nodding. “Not bad. I moved down here to go to St Naerys for my undergrad. Nowadays I work for Senator Costayne and yes, I write. I’ve nearly finished my first novel, as a matter of fact.”

Jon whistled, that was an impressive feat. Memories of his doctoral dissertation haunt him to this day, so anyone who could finish writing a book had his admiration. “What’s it about, if I may ask?”

He could have patted himself on the back for asking that question, because Sansa seemed to forget her nervous she was and her face lit up as she animatedly described her novel. “I may have gotten my BA in politics but I also studied medieval Westeros, so I’m using all that to write a romance novel set during the turn of the fourth century.”

“During the War of the Five Kings?” Seeing her self-satisfied smirk, Jon reacted with mock outrage. “Are you testing my knowledge, Miss Stark?”

What had been lighthearted small talk took a turn when he noticed the way Sansa fluttered her eyelashes and bit her lip in lieu of answering him. Okay… _okay_ if he had any doubt about whether Sansa and he could click sexually, they had just evaporated like the steam currently whistling out of the espresso machine.  He leaned over the table, curling his fingers around his cup of tea, scant centimeters from Sansa’s own.

“Wh-” he had to clear his throat. “Why did you need to call me?”

From the way Sansa’s eyes glanced furtively around, she was clearly worried about being overheard. But it made her bend over the table, even closer to his face. He could smell her perfume now, a heady blend of magnolia and pear.

“So…my editor wants me to write explicit sex scenes and I find myself with writer’s block. I really don’t want to get into how shitty my ex boyfriends were, okay? Myranda seems to think experiencing _'Mindblowing O's’_ will help me.”

Jon took a chance and reached out to trace her fingers with his own. Transfixed, Sansa let go of her grip on her coffee cup and let him toy with her fingers. From the hitch in her breathing, she was far from unaffected. “And what do _you_ want?”

She frowned, considering the question at some length, then seemed to reach a decision. Her eyes darted up to meet his, looking so determined he felt it like a punch to the gut. He was already half hard at the possibility of getting to taste her cunt. “Right now I want to straddle you and kiss you.”

 _Fuck_.

“Do you want to test my knowledge some more?” Jon asked her, his voice coming out so low he was surprised she even heard it over the din of the cafe.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…Myranda thinks you should use me as a muse for your writing, but you can’t commit to something without some sort of proof that I can deliver on the abilities front, can you?” Underneath the table, Sansa squirmed, her bare knees brushing against his denim-clad thighs.  He wanted so badly to touch her, really touch her, but they were in public so he would have to wait.

“Okay,” she nodded sharply. “Yes.”

Jon didn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa had never done anything like this before.  Which was a bad thing, she thought, because if she had she would know what to _do_. What was the exact etiquette for an one-night stand with a relative stranger? (All those times she’d gotten off to Jon in fantasies while using her favorite vibrator didn’t count.) His hand was a steady presence on her lower back as they made their way around the throngs of people walking into the courtyard where Cafe Eden was located.

She came to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Jon turned back to her with a concerned frown. “Sansa? If you’re having second thoughts we can-”

“No!” she burst out. “It’s not that. I don’t think we should go back to my place.”

There was something there, in the downwards pull of Jon’s mouth, just like there had been earlier when he thought she was disappointed that it was him. “No, everyone in the building knows about you by now,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s one of my neighbors- she’s a hippie sex therapist. She’ll probably corner us before we make it to my door and trust me, you don’t want her giving you sex advice.”

He looked utterly gobsmacked for a long second before he broke out in wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Then his hand returned to its spot on the small of her back, turning her in the opposite direction. “My place it is. You’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”

“The opposite of allergic.” All this sudden happiness threatened to bubble out of her. _This is not a date, this is not a date_ , she reminded herself. They walked side-by-side in relative silence, enjoying the smell of damp earth and the scent of Eyrish pasties from a nearby restaurant. Before long they rounded the corner onto Blue Rose Circle. “We’re here,” Jon announced, punching in a code and opening the door next to a law office. He led her up two flights of stairs to the third floor where he unlocked his front door and stepped through, holding it open for her as he went.

Sansa had been bold as Alysanne opening that door to Ser Marq in the hallway, once. She’d known what she wanted and was willing to make the first move to get it. Open as a book and why shouldn’t that have thrilled the boys or the men she was with? Somehow, over the years, she’d ended up chastened into always waiting for them to make the first move. She’d given up control over her own desires for the sake of theirs. This, with Jon, it might be an one-off thing, or it might last a few weeks only, so why shouldn’t she try to be the sexual being she _should_ be?

Jon stood in the middle of his living room, sighing at the mess of papers on the coffee table. She toed off her rain boots and her socks then removed her jacket, setting it over the back of a chair. “I already put Ghost into the spare bedroom before I left. Just…ignore the mess, I was grading last ni-”

“Jon.” He turned.

Sansa liked the way his eyes darkened as he watched her come closer, tracking her every move in a way that had her skin tingling. She wasn’t sultry or particularly adept at overt acts of seduction, but she knew she was having the desired effect when he licked his lips and focused on hers. “Remember what I said I wanted to do in the cafe?”

He put up no resistance as she lightly pushed him backwards onto one of the cushions of the gray sectional. Time seemed to slow down and freeze, thick with the inevitability of what was coming next and how badly Sansa wanted it. She placed one knee next to his thigh and swung the other leg up and over to straddle him. His hands stopped floating in the air and touched her: his left on her hip, the fingers of his right curling around the sensitive skin on the back of her knee. The calluses alone made her shiver.

“I seem to recall something about kissing,” Jon said.

“A+ for recall, Mr. Snow.” His fingers dug just a little harder into her flesh. Sansa smirked proudly and leaned just far enough down to press her lips lightly against his. Butterfly light, but she brushed along the line of his mouth, sending tingles racing through her nerve endings. Jon shuddered against her and that was when everything turned into a dark bloom of heat. Solid arms around her waist, lips everywhere, tongues and harsh breath in the silence of the living room. One hand tugging on her hair, pinpricks of delight dancing over her scalp and the soft wet of his mouth leaving a trail of kisses along the column of her neck.

She was grinding against the growing hardness in his jeans, of that much Sansa became aware. It was almost an unconscious act, a need to give herself some satisfaction. Her dress was now bunched up around her waist, leaving just the sheer, soaked material of her panties in between her pussy and the rougher denim. She always loved the buildup, exulted in feeding the fires of her pleasure.

“Jon, Jon,” she babbled, nonsensically. “I _want_ …” she rocked her hips hard to drive home her point.

“I got you, lovely girl.” His voice was rough as he flipped them around, depositing her onto her back on the settee portion of the couch. Between Jon’s living room spinning around her in a whirl and the anticipation, she was left a bit dizzy. “Lovely girl,” he repeated, kneeling before her splayed thighs.

Fingers hooked around the band of her panties and pulled them down over her hips.  Sansa had to raise her legs together over his head so he could remove them entirely.  It felt even more wicked to part her knees now, to spread herself wide open on the cushion and expose herself to his perusal. Gods, she could feel the sweet skitter of his breath where she was wet. She stared up at the ceiling, painted white, and thought about how comforting the color scheme of his flat was, especially now that lightning was flashing out the window and thunder was rolling through the walls and the furniture and her bones.

“Did you know I’ve thought about this a lot, tasting your cunt?” Jon asked her from the edge of the settee, reminding her of the reality before her. _This is real, this is happening_. He rubbed his thumbs along the seam of her inner thighs.

“No.” She squirmed helplessly, feeling every thread in the cushion lightly abrading her bottom because her dress was now up around her ribcage, just underneath her breasts.

“Well I have,” Jon informed her, not seeming to care how he tormented her. “I’ve wondered what kind of noises you’d make when you’re coming all over my tongue.”

“Yes, please,” she begged, bucking her hips into empty air. And then he was there with the broad stroke of his tongue, warm and wet and sliding up in between her inner lips. Sansa was sure she let all the breath out of her lungs in a single, noisy “uh!”, tensing then relaxing again. It was enough for Jon to insert his shoulders into the space between her thighs, establishing a slow, steady pace with his tongue as he lapped at her. No zeroing in on the general vicinity of her clit and grinding it into submission until she was faking an orgasm, no uneven rhythms as he got bored.  Just the right amount of pressure to intrigue her until she was gripping his head and rocking herself against his mouth trying to get more.

Worst of it all, she couldn’t seem to hold back the broken sounds escaping her throat: the hums, the low stuttered moans, or the shuddering whimpers. She’d never had them all crowding to fly and be heard and the prospect only made her realize how inhibited she was. Jon’s tongue stopped and moved away a fraction.

“Sansa.” The sibilant consonants of her name sounded like a command. Panting, she peered down the line of her body to where Jon knelt.  His eyes were kind as he looked at her, mouth all shiny. “Here.” He yanked off his burgundy sweater and handed it to her. “Believe me, I want to hear the noises you make, but try using the sweater as a muffler if you think it helps.”

There was no way this man was real, she thought as he dropped a gentle kiss to her inner thigh and then it was lips to pussy again. Sansa closed her mouth over one of the arms of the sweater just as Jon darted down and curled his tongue up into her, broad palms cupping her ass and encouraging her to take him deeper. The makeshift gag worked- it was easier for her to be noisy if she thought the material trapped most of the sound. She had just surrendered to the tongue-fucking he was giving her when he removed his tongue from inside her and started tracing patterns over her clit.

Her moans reached a pitch, body tensing ever tighter and thighs beginning to quiver. There was the glide of fingers- one and then two of them- filling her up and curving and rotating. Fucking her just as he set his tongue to her clit again, the fingers of his other hand tugging the hood away from her clit. It was all too intense, she clenched around Jon’s fingers which felt wonderful but the feathering of his tongue over her nub threatened to undo her. Every time she tried to shy away, Jon was pressing harder, flitting the tip of his tongue over her with more determination.  Higher and higher, tighter and tighter, she strained against him, desperate. Ripping the sweater away, she gasped. “I’m going to- I’m going to, _gods_!”

Her body nearly bent in half before she flopped back on the couch, keening and shaking from the force of her orgasm as it rippled through her like a shockwave. She had no control over this, and so could only roll her hips into Jon’s mouth. He didn’t let up the entire time the contractions were wreaking their way through her body, working her through it.

A delicious lassitude settled into her limbs, and even with her increasing sensitivity, she couldn’t seem to make herself stop rocking against his tongue, milking every last drop of pleasure she could from it. It felt so wicked, so wanton, and Sansa knew in that moment she was gone. Ruined. She’d always want this, always want more and more.

“Stop,” she mewled, pushing at Jon’s head until he abated and left her to feel the cooling air on her wetness. It wasn’t just the roar of blood in her ears, it was the cacophony of rain hitting the windowpanes outside. Sansa listened to both as she gradually calmed down her pounding heart. Her entire world felt as if it’d been set upside its axis.

Jon’s hand found hers, fingers entwining and his thumb playing with the sensitized flesh on her palm. He didn’t say a word right away- he didn’t need to. Her own fingers fixated on the calluses of his hand as she tried to regain her wits.

This was just supposed to be a test drive, how was she going to survive more? Specifically, how was she supposed to survive more without wanting _more_? _This is not a date, this is not a date_ , she reminded herself futilely.

It was Jon’s beard nuzzling into her lower belly that woke her up from her dozing and startled her into action. What was she doing? Wasn’t it the rule of casual arrangements for the guest to leave after the sex was over? He probably wanted her to go so he could finish his grading and- but what about him? She should help him take care of his erection; after all, _he’d just gone down on her for what had to be ten minutes_.

Sansa sat up rather suddenly, startling Jon back onto his heels. “Wha-” She interrupted his confused utterance with her lips, kissing him hard enough that she half hoped it would bruise. A reminder that would last longer than she’d been here. She could taste herself on him and the thrill alone was enough to give her a twinge between her thighs.

“Come on,” she told him, tugging on his biceps. “Your turn. Quid pro quo.” But Jon halted her questing fingers before she could unbutton his jeans.

“Not today. This was just about you, remember? If you want to continue this we can have all the mutual orgasms we want.”

Oh, she definitely  _wanted_. “Yes.” She cleared her throat and tried to seem nonchalant, like this was a matter of course and she could handle this. “I’ll call you and let you know. We can set up a time.” Looking away from his steady gaze, Sansa grappled for something, anything, to get her out of there with a modicum of grace. Her eyes alighted on the papers still littered over his coffee table.

“I almost feel guilty leaving you to all this grading.” There. She managed a grin as she stood up and plucked her panties off the floor.

“Gr- yeah, the grading. My students aren’t bad, but there’s always some interesting ideas on how to formulate an argument.” She still wasn’t looking at him as she wriggled her way into her underwear and pulled her dress back down over her thighs. Socks and boots were next, and once she had her jacket back on, she allowed herself to turn back to him.

Jon was standing now, one hand in his jean pocket not disguising the impression his erection was making against the fabric, the other was rubbing the back of his neck. Purse solidly over her shoulder, she was ready. He stepped closer, his hand leaving his neck and reaching out for too long a moment before he let it drop, looking conflicted about something.

She spoke before he could. “Well, thank you. Really. And enjoy the rest of your weekend.” Gods could she sound any more trite? Now she really, really needed to get out of there.

Jon followed her to the door, holding it open as she stepped through the archway. “No problem. I’ll certainly be thinking of you.”

She tossed a tight smile over and a small wave over her shoulder as she headed down the hall towards the stairs.

 

 

Her weird grin was frozen on her face for most of the walk back to her flat. Sansa couldn’t even bring herself to care that it was pouring rain, getting her so soaked she was going to need a hot shower at home to recover. Seven hells, she was going to need a hot shower to process what had just happened to her this afternoon. That had been good. No, that had been beyond good, it had been _amazing._  In fact, everything had been such a jumble of AMAZING that she wasn’t sure how she’d parse it into actual scenes for her novel.

Not that it made the whole experience a waste.

No, Sansa now understood why Myranda had been so insistent she see what she had been missing out on. And Jon, _Jon_! One of the stars of her sexual fantasies had just gone down on her in reality. Her cheeks flushed and for a moment, Sansa almost thought everyone around her could tell what she had just done. She rounded the corner onto Mockingbird Road and made a beeline for the Wisteria Arms.

 _I’ll certainly be thinking of you_ , he’d said. If he hadn’t stopped her, she would have reversed their positions and knelt before his leanly muscled thighs. She would’ve slowly licked her way up his shaft, gradually bathing the entirety of his cock before she even took the head into her mouth. Just the thought had her excited in a way she didn’t think she’d felt in a long time. If the oral sex was this good, then maybe the other forms of sex would be out of this world.

Sansa knew she wanted to see Jon again, but she knew that it was going to be hard for her to not cross that unspoken line that said: _this is purely sexual and casual_. To resist the urge to call him to tell her about her day and ask about his, to cook or bake for him, or to have Netflix nights in. Maybe she was already an addict now, and willing to make the effort to suppress her other desires in order to get her fix. Certainly, Jon must have other women he was seeing. (Maybe men too, she wouldn’t know.) Other pussies he was eating out with such abandon. The thought did cause a small pang to go through her.

By the time she was tiptoeing up the stairs to her floor, desperately trying to avoid alerting anybody that she was back, Sansa had come to a decision. She wanted this experience, she would do this and she would use it. She wanted to publish her novel and see where that took her. And the _absolute last thing_ she would do was embarrass herself or make this awkward for Jon by taking up more time than he wanted to give.

 

* * *

 

 

_Three weeks later_

 

When Jon opened the door to see Sansa grinning breathlessly back at him, clad casually in black yoga pants and an oversized lilac shirt that showed off her collarbones, one creamy shoulder, and the lacy halter-neck of her black bra, he felt like he was finally at home.

“Hey there,” he murmured softly, opening his arms for her to step into his embrace. She answered from next to his neck.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late, I had to go home and get out of my work clothes-”

“It’s really no problem,” he reassured her. They stepped back, but only to let their lips greet one other boldly, tongues sliding together. Sansa hummed before they ended the kiss and he retreated into his flat, her following at a comfortable pace. Only a few strands of her glorious red hair were twisted back, the rest fell down her back in messy waves. Jon’s fingers itched to play with fire.

“You need anything? Water?” he asked her, padding through the living room and into the kitchen.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” Out the corner of his eye he saw Ghost approach her to bump his head against her leg, obviously wanting her to pet him. _Don’t get too attached, buddy, it’ll just hurt more in the end_.

Jon filled a glass with water and handed it to her. Ghost, sensing that Sansa wouldn’t be focused on him for much longer, wandered out into the hallway, likely heading for his mattress on the floor of Jon’s office.

“So, how’s the writing coming?”

She gave him a cheeky, knowing smirk that had his cock thickening in his pants. “Almost as well as I am.” Jon let out a bark of laughter.

“I believe it, given the kinds of things I’ve heard come out of that mouth of yours.” He winked and even though Sansa ducked her head down, he spotted the blush that spread from her cheeks down to her throat.

This wasn’t the second time they have been together. Or the third, or even the fourth. She’d called him two days after that ‘test-drive’, sounding resolute, and so their casual arrangement had been born.  Not that calling it such made a difference towards keeping Jon’s feelings at bay. As a lover, Sansa was not tentative: she kissed, touched, dug her nails in, bit, and canted her hips with a very focused ebb-and-flow that he found utterly consuming. The kinds of ideas she had for positions they should try…he was well aware he was barely scratching the surface of her fantasies. 

Not that they always had sex as soon as they got together. Sometimes they just _talked_ , and there had been that one Sunday they’d whipped up a quick lunch with whatever they’d found in his kitchen. She’d been laughing at him, a gut-busting and soundless thing, because he couldn’t seem to slice the cherry tomatoes without sending them halfway across the kitchen. Then she’d quietened and pressed herself along the line of his body, looking at him with this softness in her expression and an intensity in her eyes that had the breath stuck in his throat.

(So yeah, he kinda wanted to marry her. _Kinda_.) 

She looked at him like _that_ but she never stayed afterwards- always pulling on her clothes, making small talk before she waved him goodbye. And it sucked. It fucking sucked.  If anything, Jon should be taking a page out of her book and reminding himself not to get too involved. Because all this was going to end soon…unless he did something about it.

“Are you in the mood for takeout?” Sansa asked, setting down her empty glass. His dark, desperate thoughts guiding his actions, Jon closed the distance between them and spun her around, trapping her between the ridge of the kitchen counter and his body. She gasped, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, but he saw the way her eyes darkened, eyelashes fluttering.

“You. I just want you, Sansa.” His heart pounded as if he’d just made a confession of love. In a way he had.

“Then you have me, Jon.”

His lips drifted scant millimeters away from her cheek and he let them brush over her lips with the barest of a kiss. She tried to follow, to kiss him back but Jon angled away. His hands at her waist prevented her from rolling her hips into his. Gods, but she looked adorable when she pouted.

“I thought you wanted me. You can’t have me if you don’t let me kiss you.” Then her voice dropped an octave. “Especially after I spent all day thinking of sucking your cock.”

“You did, huh?”

“Mm-mm,” Sansa nodded. “Even when I was in a staff meeting. I was practically squirming in my chair but nobody noticed, nobody knew.”

Jon’s breath left his lungs in a heavier exhalation;his dick gave an interested twitch. He loved it when she went down on him because she always seemed to get entirely absorbed in her task: patiently licking along the shaft until it glistened with her saliva before she would even give him the mercy of swirling her tongue around the head.

_No. Not now._

“What if that isn’t how I want you right now?” He murmured, sliding his hands up over her cotton-covered ribcage until he was just underneath her breasts. A swipe of his thumb over her nipples had her arching into his touch and her breathing grow ragged.

“H-how do you want me?”

Jon backed away entirely then, no longer touching her. Jerking his chin in the direction of the dining room table, he said: “By the time we make it over there, you’re going to be naked and I’m going to fuck you against it.”

Sansa actually let out a little whimper, her eyes widening as she followed his line of sight. There was a beat where she stared at the table before she looked back at him. Then: “Okay.”

He wasn’t about to hurry, not even when Sansa practically launched herself at him, arms and long, long legs wrapped around his waist. He nearly knocked her into a drawer handle before he managed to get her sat atop the counter. This time, their kiss was full of teeth and hunger. Adrenaline flooded his system with an atavistic need to possess as he broke their kiss to yank her shirt over her head, knocking loose one of the pins holding her hair back.

Sansa looked a woman possessed herself: lips swollen and one hand reaching behind his head to grip his hair. The sharp pleasure-pain had him hissing and gripping her hips hard as she pulled him in for another brutal kiss. Jon tried to get his tongue past her lips, to own her mouth and show her what she would be giving up once she left him, but every time he tried, she would nip at his lips.

A thrill ran down Jon’s spine and he brought his hand down on one of her ass cheeks, the smack echoing in the relative silence of the apartment. Sansa froze, wheezing slightly, watching him while her body trembled in his hold. This was new.  He maintained eye contact with her, silently letting her know that whatever happened next was up to her.  When she pushed him away from the counter and hopped down, to say that Jon was confused would be an understatement. But all she did was hurriedly shimmy out of her pants, underwear, and shoes, leaving her in nothing but the lacy halter bra. 

Sansa stared at him, holding the eye contact for several long seconds, only a flicker of uncertainty showing through the excitement. Then she strode over to the dining room table and bent over it, her legs braced shoulder-width apart and long enough for her to arch her back and present him with a clear sight of her pink, pink pussy, framed by a dusting of red-orange hair.

He was parched; so so suddenly parched as if he had been wandering a desert for days.

“You absolute minx,” he groaned, shucking his clothes as he approached her. She didn’t look back at him, face still resting on her arms, palms turned downwards, but she wriggled her ass at him playfully. “You wicked, wicked minx.”

Three weeks and Sansa had clearly figured out that he had a fixation. That he didn’t kneel before the altar of pussy just because he wanted to please his partner, but because he _needed_ to. Jon wasn’t about to just let her get away with this, no matter how much he wanted to put his mouth on her and work her over so hard the neighbors heard her cries. Instead, he traced his fingers lightly down her spine, making her twitch and shiver. Then the same with the fingers of both hands over her ass and the backs of her thighs.

Up her spine he went again, brushing aside her hair and chasing the ghost of his touch with his lips and teeth until she was a begging, squirming mess. “Jon…” He ignored her, slowly lowering himself onto his knees and gently biting into the fleshiest part of her ass.  He gave her no warning before he licked a stripe up her sex, finding her already wet.

Jon kept his hands lightly wrapped around her knees to prevent her from closing her legs while he worked. He probed with his tongue, suckled on the hood covering her clit, all the while Sansa’s keening moans drove ever higher in pitch. She kept trying to push back against him, to grind herself on his face. He knew by now that the bristles of his beard pressing into her sensitive skin here would drive her wild.

“Please, please, Jon _please_!”

Panting heavily, Jon fumbled for his pants pocket where he’d stashed a condom earlier, knowing it was entirely possible they wouldn’t make it to his room before they were fucking. And what do you know? Good thing he’d been a cub scout when he was a kid- always prepared!

He could’ve made her come with his mouth, but the Thursday before last Sansa had been so excited and proud when she managed to come with his cock in her and a thumb on her clit. That had been when Jon discovered a new kink he hadn’t known he’d had: Type-A Overachiever personalities. “Turn around, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck you now.”

In the flurry of movement that followed, he almost didn’t catch her muttered 'thank the gods’. And then, once more, he had those long, gorgeous legs of hers wrapped around his hips. With her arms around the back of his neck, Sansa clung to him, their foreheads touching as he quickly rolled the condom on and slid home.

Jon exhaled sharply at the feel of the warmth of her cunt gripping his cock.  He remembered that he had promised to fuck her, and so he did. He set a merciless pace- not jackhammering up into her, no; he _rocked_ into her, making sure to bottom out and hit her pubic bone every time if he could. Sansa just took it at first until she gave into the urge to drop her arms from around him and brace her palms back against the table. At that angle, and with the leverage from her arms, she was able to begin to meet his thrusts. She also unhooked her ankles and let her legs lower until they were just bracketing his hips and her calves wrapped around his thighs.

“That’s it, yeah, come on. Do what feels good.” He encouraged her as she settled into a rhythm, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, and lace-covered breasts wobbling with each thrust. “I can feel your cunt, can you feel it getting tighter and tighter?” He murmured, fingers digging into the meat of her thighs. Sansa whimpered.

“Ye-yes, I-” she couldn’t seem to finish her thought. But Jon could detect the tension in her body, around him and against him, and so when she started to widen her knees and reach for him, he knew she was right there on the precipice. And he was just about there with her, muscles straining in concert with one other as they worked towards a singular end.

Sansa flung one arm around his shoulders, the other clutching at a bicep, bringing their bodies close enough for her to lift her ass entirely off the table, canting her hips erratically and releasing a wailing series of ’ _oh! oh! oh!s_ ’ as she came. Jon was utterly lost in the moment, feeling her squeezing him and fluttering around him, that he took a step back, holding up her entire weight and digging his fingers into her ass hard enough he knew he would leave a bruise. He jerked against her, forcing her to take his entire length and hold it there. Stars burst behind his eyelids and a shudder traveled down his spine as he erupted.

It seemed his entire body was left shaking as the hard ripples of his climax faded, leaving him standing there with a increasingly boneless Sansa clinging to him like a limpet.  His heart pounded a wild tattoo and Jon didn’t want to let go of her for the world, so he simply let his softening cock slip from her and kept holding onto her until she finally stood on two shaky feet.

The bubble of the moment hadn’t been popped and he took the opportunity to let his fingertips drag over her damp skin, combing them through her hair until she shivered and pressed her breasts harder into his chest, making the lace scratch at him. Sansa seemed content to rest her cheek on his shoulder and kept trying to bring her breathing back under control.

But no bubble lasts forever.

Eventually, much too soon, she straightened and stepped away with a sleepy yet strained smile. He watched her with a tightness in his chest as she started the hunt for her underwear. It wasn’t just the cooling sweat on his body that made him feel so suddenly cold. Her hair might be fire but Sansa was like water, like air: no matter how he tried to hold onto her, she was forever slipping between his fingers.

Before he’d even realized how much he wanted her.

Her panties were back on and so were the yoga pants when he broke the thick silence in the apartment. “Why do you never stay?”

Sansa froze and looked over at him, the space between her brows wrinkling in confusion. “Is this a trick question?”

Jon couldn’t even reply, so he shrugged and gave her a sardonic look that he hoped communicated: _No it’s not obvious, explain_.

Now she looked rather dumbstruck. “I thought this was casual.”

“Yes, bu-” And just like that, he was tired. Beyond tired of all this, and _angry_. “Never mind. So, have you gotten enough material for your book yet? Or are we going to have to drag this out much longer?” He asked her in a clipped tone, snatching his pants off the floor and yanking them on one leg after the another. When he looked back over at Sansa, he almost faltered at the pinched look on her face, the one Jon suspected meant she was trying to hold back tears.

“That’s okay,” she said, more than a little hoarsely, reaching for her shirt. “We’re done. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

He knew he was being callous, but he was still irritated and hurt and even though he knew he could be pigheaded when he was like this, and myopic in the heat of the moment…all he could do was stand by, not looking at her while she gathered the rest of her things and left.

 

Yeah, he’d known it was coming. But you’d think he would’ve understood by now that the knowing wouldn’t make it any easier. Jon was used to denying himself the things he wanted- it came with the territory growing up poor with a single mother who worked two jobs to make ends meet. He was also shit at expressing himself verbally, which had come back to bite him in the ass more than once. So the moment Sansa Stark walked out of his life, all Jon was aware of was crushing regret. The walking embodiment of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, I think eleven year old girls have it right when they say boys suck. Why did we ever start thinking otherwise as we got older? Hormones and lies, I bet. Society sells us an unrealistic fantasy and tells us we are failures if it doesn’t work out, never mind that the majority of the time the reasons heterosexual relationships don’t work out is because men have the emotional capacity of a _toaster_!” She ranted.

“Mmm.”

“Especially stupid Jon Snow.” Sansa spat out each word.

“Hmm mm.”

“Yup. That’s it.” She nodded, resolute. “I’ve decided that Jon Snow is an _asshole_. You should tell all your friends this…Myranda? Are you even listening to me?” Sansa twisted in her seat on the couch and glared at her neighbor-friend who was entirely too engrossed in stroking her new, shiny, scaly purse.

Hearing her name, Myranda looked up and waved a hand carelessly. “Men suck, no shit. You’re not exactly reinventing the wheel here, Sansa.”

It had been two days since what Sansa had termed ‘The Break Up’, even though she and Jon hadn’t really been ~together~, and Myranda had finally decided to come up to Sansa’s flat and play Agony Aunt the best way she knew how: with Tequila. Sansa took a loud, passive-aggressive slurp through the straw stuck in her frozen margarita and winced at the immediate brain freeze.

“That’s not how a bitchfest goes, Randa. You’re supposed to just nod along and agree with me, especially since this is 80% your fault. What’s with the bag anyways? You’ve been admiring it since you walked through the door.”

Myranda held up one finger. “Firstly, the only thing I am to blame for is orgasms, anything else is yours and Jon’s faults. Secondly, Barry got it for me,” she preened, holding the bag up for Sansa’s closer inspection. “It’s a Ynys Yron, practically the latest line, and cost §900.” Barry, by the way, was the retired General Barristan Selmy, Myranda’s sugar daddy. Sansa didn’t really understand it, but apparently Barristan… _Barry_ …had a thing for admiring women from afar.  And spending money on Myranda even though they never met in person.

Whatever floated their respective boats.

“I just… _argh_!” Sansa let out a growl of frustration, slouching further against the couch cushions. “He has these casual hookups- all the time, I’m sure- and I abided by the rules of that agreement. It was just sex. Amazing, toe-curling, name-forgetting sex. I didn’t let my feelings get in the way and then-”

“So you _did_ have feelings involved-” Myranda interjected with a raised eyebrow, setting her bag to the side and picking up her half-liquefied margarita.

Sansa shook her head emphatically. “That is not the point!”

“Okay, fine. You went and grew disgusting feelings for your toyboy but they don’t count. Gotcha.” Myranda muttered, sounding mildly miffed.

“Don’t be presumptuous,” Sansa shot back. “Anyways, I didn’t act desperate or hang around afterwards and then he has the nerve to get pissy because I’m not doing the above things. Like does he need the ego stroke? You should’ve heard him, Randa. You’d think I was using him and discarding him like kleenex.”

Myranda squinted at her. “I’m afraid to play the devil’s advocate here, Sansy, but to be fair, you _were_ using him.”  All she got was a stony glare in return. “Look, _yes_ it does sound like Jon was being dickish to you at the end-”

“AHA!” Sansa stabbed a forefinger into the air in victory. She was on her second tequila-heavy margarita (after pre-gaming with two shots) and therefore well on her way to being completely sloshed.

“-but don’t you think that the fact he seemed upset you never stayed after sex means he had feelings he was hiding too?”

Of course that had occurred to Sansa; on the walk home after fleeing Jon’s flat, actually. Yet she couldn’t shake the insidious voice at the back of her head that whispered ’ _he was just trying to make it your fault_ ’. Both Joffrey and Harry had been expert gaslighters. You don’t escape from people like that unscathed.

“No,” she said petulantly.

Myranda rolled her eyes at Sansa. “Whatever you say. But when you get over your pity party maybe you should have an actualpants honest conversation with Jon. If there’s something more to what you two have beyond multiple orgasms, then it’s a win-win situation all around.” That _did_ sound like a sensible plan.

But Sansa’s pride was still smarting after the way Jon had coldly dismissed her when she was still feeling the afterglow from that orgasm. She’d felt dirty and ashamed. _Fuck you, Jon Snow_. “No. I’ve decided I’m done with men and relationships for a good, long time. I think Sansa needs to take more time to focus on herself. Getting happy with herself. And besides we live in an age where vibrating dildos with bunny ear attachments exist so it’s not like I’m going to be _totally_ deprived.” Sansa was horrified to realize her voice was breaking and she felt like she was on the verge of tears.

“Look at you, Sansa Stark,” Myranda clucked softly. “I get you on that magic tongue and you go and get heartbroken. What am I going to do with you?” She murmured rhetorically.

“I’m not heartbroken,” Sansa whimpered, hot tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. “I’m _vagina-broken_.”

* * *

 

 

“ _You are a fucking moron_.”

Jon sighed. “Hello to you, too, Myranda.” He could guess why she was calling and he would be 100% correct. “And thanks for telling me something I already know.”

If she took exception to his sarcasm, she didn’t show it. “ _And I’d gladly insult you again, but that’d be_ _§_ _2.99 a minute on my Big Beautiful Mistress website_.” Jon rolled his eyes towards the seven heavens. Myranda had made no bones about her reasons for not staying with him years back- she’d had her eyes set on acquiring an older, richer man to spoil her rotten and a college sophomore who made §1100 a month did not qualify.

“Did you call me just to scold me?” He pushed the stack of graded papers away from him on the desk, then pulled off his glasses so he could rub the bridge of his nose. On the other end of the line, Myranda made a noncommittal noise.

“ _Do you ask the other women to stay after you two fuck? Or was Sansa special?_ ” Now there was a loaded question. He’d been beating himself up for the past few days every time he thought about her. He’d also beat himself off last night in the shower, imagining her on her knees before him, lips wrapped around his cock. Then he’d angrily cleaned his kitchen, driven by a wave of self-loathing.

“The only other person I ever asked to stay was Arianne,” he admitted. There was a pregnant pause on the line; then a sigh.

“ _Oh, Jon_.” Anger spiked though him, hot and sweet.

“Yeah yeah, pity stupid pathetic Jon,” he bit out.

Myranda snorted. “ _I’m not dealing with another pity party, not in a less-than-24-hour time span. So you_ _ **do**_ _think Sansa Stark is special_.” Was that an accusation or was that awe he was hearing in her tone? Jon couldn’t be sure. The tension flooded out of him.

“Of course I do. How could I not? She’s so warm, kind, and intelligent. She filled up my life and then left me feeling bereft,” he grumbled.

“ _Mother, maiden, and flaming crone_!” Myranda swore. “ _Don’t tell me you’re dick-broken, too_.”

“What?”

“ _Never mind. So, what are you going to do about it_?”

“Nothing? Sansa got what she wanted and I wish her good luck with her book.” _Liar, liar, pants on fire._ Besides, he wasn’t about to be one of those men who harass women as if they’re owed something.

“ _Don’t be so obtuse. Do you think Sansa is the type who’s had a bunch of hookups? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, obvi,_ ”

“Obviously,” he said dryly.

“ _No, she’s the kind that watched way too many teen movies when she was younger, wants to fall in love, do the whole ~relationship~ thing, and then move in with the guy six months before he proposes. That’s her thing. And you know what, Jon Snow? I think that’s your thing, too. I mean, if you think you can dedicate yourself to eating only one pussy…_ ”

Jon blamed the sudden mental picture and the twinge in his cock for him answering without thinking. “For her pussy, I would easily." Then, realizing what he'd just admitted out loud, swore, "shit!”

Myranda cackled. It was another minute before she quietened down enough to respond. “ _Seriously, though. I’m violating the sacred Best Friend Secret Keeper Rules by telling you this: Sansa only made herself leave you afterwards because that’s what she think happens when people are just hooking up and she didn’t want to seem pathetic. After all, **you’ve** had plenty of hookups. So, please, for my fucking sanity, man up and lock that pussy down_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Aye, you are right. I **am** the Lady of Snowden. And you have made a vow to serve me, did you not?” Alysanne kept her chin high, looking straight at Marq. The light from the open windows cast a softness about the solar, at odds with the rampant tension between its two inhabitants. Her sworn shield remained at a position of rest, hands clasped behind his back._

_Marq nodded, if a bit reluctantly. “That I did, my lady.”_

“ _So you will remain here as part of my protective detail. With few other prospects, I shall accept Lord Raventree’s offer of his second son in marriage. There must be heirs to secure the Winter line, after all.” She was grimly pleased to see a muscle jump in Marq’s jaw._

“ _So soon? You’ve scarcely settled back in the castle.” The faint accusation in his tone raised her hackles._

“ _Precisely. As far as I know, I am the last Winter, and I must secure my claim. The sooner I am wed, the sooner I can be with child. Obviously, Addam Raventree is only a stranger to me, but I will do my duty.” The mere thought of having another man between her thighs was enough to make her nauseous. But Alysanne willed herself to remain stoic. She had already bared more than her body to Ser Marq, she must not let him know he has her heart._

_Marq’s stare was flinty as he studied every nuance of her expression. “But won’t this Addam Raventree be surprised when he discovers you are not a maid?”_

“ _And whose fault is that?” Alysanne shot back hotly. Her tone was much too sharp, she knew that, but she couldn’t seem to control her reaction to his needling. “I offered you my hand and a seat next to mine in the great hall. You turned it down. I’ll simply have to make do. There are ways to pretend pain and blood.”_

_He blanched, looking away from her and down at the floor. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Yet there was a faint bloom of hope in her chest. Please, change your mind. Say you’ll be mine, and then I shall be yours for the rest of our days…_

“ _Very well. I wish you good fortune in your marriage,” he sounded utterly devoid of emotion._

_And just like that, she was left watching the broad planes of his back as he stalked out of her solar. Yet not out of her life. It was then that Alysanne realized she would have to harden her heart to him if she was to be in his presence day after day._

_I must turn my skin from porcelain, to ivory, to steel, she thought._

 

* * *

 

Sansa had found herself re-reading the penultimate chapter of _The Sword & The Dove_, feeling creeped out by how utterly prescient it had been. Empathizing with Alysanne only made the wound of her ended _whatever_ with Jon all the more fresh. Every time she had left Jon after they’d had sex, after they’d been laughing and saying such intimate things, it’d been like a vise around her lungs. Joff and Harry had both had a tendency to roll away after they’d come, leaving her feeling bereft and trying to bury the hurt; yet doing it to Jon only made her feel the same.

She sighed and switched from one document to another, staring at the blinking cursor that continued to mock her. She’d sent Olenna two revised chapters that contained sex scenes and the response had been fairly effusive for the older woman:

“ _Well, you’ve got me gushing! Two are great but perhaps a third? Then in the afterglow they have the climatic argument. Something vigorous, pls._ ”

She refused to believe that the lack of Jon Snow in her life meant she was unable to write any more smut scenes, but here she was, torn on how to proceed. She saw what Olenna had seen, namely that Alysanne and Marq tended to reveal their deepest feelings in bed where neither could don any armor. That was the way she’d written those first two sex scenes and it’d surprised her how much she agreed with Olenna that the sex improved characterization and gave both her heroine and hero more depth and rawness. 

There’d been the one where Alysanne made the decision to bring Marq in from his position in the hallway, then the one where Marq interrupted her while she was preparing several letters for the ravens, bending her over her desk and lifting her skirts over her backside. Sansa had written the latter shortly before going to see Jon and even now she flushed at the thought of how she’d practically jumped him as soon as he’d opened the door.

But there was just something about this scene that eluded her and made it impossible for her to move her fingers over the keys. Maybe because she knew that in order for the transition to work here, she would have to write Alysanne and Marq baring their hearts in a way she hadn’t with Jon. Sansa was also resolutely ignoring the possibility that Jon had felt the same way towards her because accepting that would only make it all the worse.

 

* * *

 

“ _That’s it, that’s it sweet girl,” Marq crooned, his eyes drifting shut as she continued to rotate her hips in hard, slow circles. No matter how she tried, Alysanne couldn’t seem to halt the shocked cries escaping her throat with every brush of her nub against the base of his cock._

_Only his powerful arms wrapped around her waist held her up as he knelt on the bed. Alysanne was distantly aware that his thick thighs must be working overtime to bear her weight around his hips as he moved them in response to hers. Her pleasure built and built as they strained up a steep incline together, knowing that ecstasy laid beyond the pinnacle. No matter how her lungs burned and her limbs threatened to lose strength, she kept on moving, never wanting the snap of Marq’s cock into her cunt to end._

“ _I can’t!” She sobbed, desperate. Sweat traced rivulets down their flesh, their shared heat threatening to suffocate them._

“ _You can. You will,” he swore._

_The thought came to her, its presence so brilliant and searing she had to bite her lip before the words came spilling out of her mouth. 'Promise me you won’t spend outside my cunt. Give me all of you: give me your love and give me your babes’._

 

* * *

 

 

Her fingers paused as she stared at her laptop screen. Outside, she could hear voices and faint music which threatened to derail her train of thought. Shaking her head, Sansa refocused on the story. “Just have her say it,” she muttered to herself, “Put it in double quotation marks instead of unspoken italics.”

Before she could fix what she’d just written, the music increased in volume. _What on earth_ …Sansa huffed and stormed out onto the balcony, peering over the railing to see what in the seven hells was going on. “Excuse me, but some of us are trying to wor- Jon?” She trailed off in shock.

Jon was standing right there on the lawn below her balcony with an iPod hooked up to a dock and a set of speakers, all of which were plugged in via a long extension cord. Someone in the building had to have helped him do that. He looked good in his usual uniform of gray jeans and a black shirt, hair pulled back.  “What are you doing?” She was aware she sounded a little shrill, but that strange buoyant feeling in her gut felt a whole lot like hope, and she didn’t want to be disappointed, even with the evidence right below her.

“Hey,” Jon waved up at her, smiling in an aww-shucks manner as he indicated the setup on the grass.  “I thought I’d make an appeal to your sense of clemency using the romantic stylings of 980s teen movies.”

Another voice piped up from below: “Which I told him is was a very obvious ploy to guilt trip you into giving him another chance.” Sansa looked at the balcony below her, one flat to the right, where Wylla Manderly’s now-teal head poked out over her own railing.

“Oh come off it,” Satin called down from above. “Sometimes you can’t beat nostalgic overtures of romance. Teenage me would’ve given his left nut to have someone stand outside his window with a boombox.”

Wylla twisted around until she was smirking up at Satin. “A boombox? It’s been that long, has it?”

“SHUT UP!” Sansa cried out, slamming her hands down on the railing for emphasis. “This is _my_ scene, stop ruining it!” To Jon, she offered a wary smile. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

Jon reached over to hit pause on the iPod so he could be heard over all her busybody neighbors. He looked so serious now, so unsmiling, but Sansa had learned a thing or two  about Jon Snow over the past few weeks, and so didn’t take it personally. “I’ve realized more than once over the past few days that I’m an idiot-”

“You realized this all by yourself?” This from Myranda, sounding syrupy sweet.

“SH!” Sansa didn’t even look up to where Myranda stood, now on the same balcony as Satin.

Jon looked mildly chagrined. “Look, Sansa, the point I’m trying to make is that _I fucking miss you_.” Raw emotion shone from his eyes, and she felt something inside her begin to thaw.

“Or do you mean that you miss fucking her?” Wylla said acerbically.

Another familiar female voice joined the conversation, nasal and unamused. “Both statements can be simultaneously true; sexual fulfillment is every bit as important to a relationship as emotional fulfillment.” What followed was a whispered argument between Selyse and Wylla, which Sansa ignored.

“She has a point, you know?” At Jon’s confused look, she clarified. “Wylla. Do you really miss me, or do you miss what we were doing? I thought you’d have moved onto someone else by now.” He shook his head, imploring her with his eyes.

“I miss _you_ , Sansa. I miss talking to you about pop music and the constraints governing the existence of true knights in a feudal society.  I miss the way you would look at me- like I was someone who deserved to hear how your day went and what you fantasize about when you’re alone-”

“Jon!” She cried out, scandalized at how many people were hearing this. He continued without pausing.

“I should’ve told you I wanted to change our arrangement, that I wanted you to stay and sleep next to me so I could make you breakfast in the morning. I really want to argue with you about what to watch on Netflix. But I let my hangups from my past relationships get in the way, and for that I’m sorry. Also, you were the only one I was seeing in any capacity over the past few weeks, and yours would gladly be the only cunt I taste.”

He stopped then, breathing heavily as he awaited her response.

“You smooth bastard,” Satin marveled. Myranda’s affirmative noise was drowned out by the roar in Sansa’s ears. In her darkest moments after leaving Jon’s place, she had realized with a bleak sort of clarity just how lonely she was. It was entirely possible, she had thought, to starve from a lack of love. To let your heart fuse back together after every heartbreak, but to never set quite right. To bring your ghosts into each successive bed and let bitterness ruin what could have been sweet.

At least five sets of eyes were watching her with bated breath. “I think,” she said slowly, decision already made, “that you should come up here and check out my Netflix queue yourself.”

Jon blinked but remained unmoving for a long moment. “Y- okay. Okay, I’ll be there!” He shouted, making a break for the side-door that was currently being propped open by the extension cord.

The last thing Sansa heard from the peanut gallery before she closed the balcony doors was Wylla complaining: “What, _that’s it_? I swear straight people are so weird.”

The minute it took Jon to make his way up the stairs to her flat stretched out for an eternity. Sansa was aware that she was what people would quantify as a 'hopeless romantic’, always with the tone as if being such a thing were a pitiable offense. If the grand sum of her experiences in her short life thus far had shown her anything, it was that the hopeless ones were the strongest ones. You had to be in order to keep searching for the kind of love you wanted no matter how many times you were disappointed.

 

* * *

 

_Alysanne’s breath caught in her throat as she met Marq’s eyes. His chest heaved and gleamed from his efforts defeating every challenger in the training yard. The intensity of emotion on his face held her captive; she could not look away even if she tried. She wouldn’t dare. Something seemed to change in him, his face going slack with some kind of shock._

_Scarcely had she frowned in concern before he was setting his sword aside and stalking off the mud and into the Guards Hall. Alysanne ignored the curious eyes watching her up on the ramparts and retreated back inside, at the same time fearful and undeniably curious. On some level she knew what might be about to happen, and the mere thought sent her wits scattering._

_The thud of Marq’s boots on the landing shook her out of her stupor. She turned and hurried towards the Great Keep, knowing he would have caught the disappearing trail of her skirts and followed. He allowed the chase to be over once she entered her chambers. Alysanne spun around to face him as he closed the door with a decisive click._

“ _Yes, Ser Marq, was there something you needed?” She tried to say as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The next sound out of her was a gasp when Marq closed the distance between them and swept her up into his arms with a hard, all-consuming kiss._

_When Alysanne was finally put back onto her feet, swaying all the while, she opened her eyes and looked dazedly up at him. “Forgive me, Alysanne,” his voice rumbled. “But I cannot continue with this charade any longer. You have ruined me for my profession. I cannot…nay, I **will not** stand by and watch you marry another, nor you bear his children. It would never be enough. I would protect you, and love you like a husband should, if you would still have me.”_

* * *

 

The moment the knock came on the door, Sansa flung it open with a grin so wide it made her face hurt. “What took you so long? I was beginning to think you got lost between the first floor and the third,” she asked Jon, noticing how he mirrored her grin but had a little wrinkle in his forehead between his eyebrows.

“I, ah, got waylaid by the other therapist. Melisandre, I think?” He panted from his exertions, looking disturbed. “She said something about not letting euphoria and eagerness make me too ambitious in bed for the next few days, and to avoid walls, whatever that meant. Also she gave me this,” he held up the object he was holding in his hand. Sansa’s eyes widened and she yanked the zucchini out of his grasp, throwing it in the general direction of the kitchen.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” With that, she pulled Jon in the rest of the way and closed the door behind her.

He was really here, this was really happening. Sansa bit her lip and considered how right it was to have him standing there in her home. “For what it’s worth, I want all those things you said outside. I just- I was doing the same thing you were…letting my past relationship failures keep me from saying what I was really feeling.” The words came out in a rush, but oh, they felt so sweet leaving her mouth. Jon stepped closer until their bodies were touching and she was surrounded by the woodsy scent of his cologne. One hand came up to cup her face and Sansa shivered at the caress of his callused thumb over her cheek.

“So what do you say?” Jon murmured, their lips drifting scant inches apart and his pupils blown so wide open the brown disappeared into the black. She wanted nothing more to wrap her arms around him, to feel his solid form against her body and know she didn’t have to let him go. “Shall we do disgusting couple things?”

Her breath left her in a shuddering rush. “Yes. Gods, _yes please_.” They were hardly making declarations of love here, but still.

Whether she was the one who made the first move, or he was, didn’t matter. Their mouths  came together messily, hungrily. Saying with their bodies all the things they’d been holding back. She nipped with her teeth, soothed with her tongue, and Jon wound his other hand through her hair until his fingers were hopelessly tangled.

Hopelessly- as if he would ever want to be free.

 

 

* * *

 

“ _I can’t!” She sobbed, desperate. Sweat traced rivulets down their flesh, their shared heat threatening to suffocate them._

“ _You can. You will,” he swore._

_The thought came to her, its presence so brilliant and searing she couldn’t bite her lip before the words came spilling out of her mouth. “Promise me you won’t spend outside my cunt. Give me all of you: give me your love and give me your babes.” A heady sort of pleasure mingled with terror washed over her, making her nearly light-headed. Marq’s reaction was immediate: his hips surged faster, driving his cock into her mercilessly. Unable to escape the relentless pressure against her nub, Alysanne keened as the tension in her body broke with all the chaos of a wave upon the shore and she kept undulating as the ripples of her peak washed over her and made her weak._

“ _Never!” Marq cried out, his rhythm stuttering as he shook from the force of his own ecstasy. “I’ll never leave you, Alys. Always you and me, like this.” H-_

 

* * *

 

Well, let’s be honest, you know how this bit will go: badly. Marq will realize what he’s just said, what Alysanne is offering, and he’ll do the stupidly noble thing. Your eyes will rush through that scene with frustration and you’ll say you hate the angst with the fire of a thousand suns.

 

But you also know how the story will really end, when those two finally come to their senses and it’s all happily with the promise of ever after. Yeah, you’ll complain about the angst but _you love it_. Love stories are for the best masochists, after all.


End file.
